


A Special Order

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: 70s-typical homophobia, Don't post to other sites, M/M, alien porn, kinkmeme prompt, nonconsensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: For the kinkmeme prompt: Wilf/The Master (I chose Delgado).
Relationships: Third Doctor & The Master, Wilfred Mott/The Master
Kudos: 6





	A Special Order

You met all sort of queer people, running a stall. Literally queer, in some cases: men with too-limp handshakes and ridiculous clothes asking him to carry all manner of magazines that nobody but the likes of them would ever buy. He usually sent them off with a harsh word.

This one, though: he might be queer, and he might not be. Wilf couldn't tell. He was pretty well dressed, dark suit and gloves, and sharp beard, but there still was something a little off about him. And he wanted Wilf to carry something all right: or rather, to order something.

"The publisher is being most uncooperative," the man said, sighing. "And since I am always travelling, it's not at all convenient to have it sent to one of my homes. So if you could just-"

Wilf was about to send the man off with another harsh word, but he extended an index card with an address on it in one neat gloved hand, and under the card was a fifty-pound note.

"For your troubles, please!" he said, waving off any suggestion of getting change in return. "I'll stop by in a few weeks to pick it up."

Wilf didn't even get the bloke's name, but he sent in the order and got back a thick envelope. He put it aside at the back of his stall, and he waited.

And he waited some more. But as he waited, he wondered. What sort of a magazine would a man be willing to pay so much for, but not be willing to have sent to his house?

Then, one particularly dead afternoon, when the drizzling rain was keeping everyone at home, Wilf had a nasty thought.

What if the magazine was something illegal? Kiddie stuff or something. And the man with the beard was just waiting to see if the police were going to nick Wilf with it.

Well, he'd see about that! His hands paused on the slick-feeling envelope, but then he recalled that the man had never said that he couldn't look at his purchase. So he opened it, turned his back to the world, and slid out the magazine.

Wilf's mouth fell open a little, and he whispered, "Would you look at that!"

There was a woman on the cover – sort of. She'd been made up somehow, like they did in the movies, to look like a cat. She had whiskers and a tail and everything, but she also had soft furred breasts with pert pink nipples sticking out. They'd even painted her photo, retouched it, so that she had cat eyes. The six-fingered hands on her thighs had long sharp claws on them. She was – all that and more!

A knocking at the edge of the stall, and he slid away the magazine and turned to sell a paper. And after he did, wouldn't you know it, here came the man with the beard.

"Here it is, sir," Wilf said, handing it over. The man took it, and fingered the opened envelope.

"You looked?" he asked simply, and Wilf hemmed and hawed a bit but finally owned up to it.

"You didn't say I couldn't," he pointed out, and the bearded man agreed. In fact, he asked Wilf to order another issue, and with the exchange of another fifty-pound note, the deal was sealed.

The man didn't come by all that often, but he was always very well-dressed. A travelling man, that's what he said. And every magazine that he got was weirder than the next.

There was one issue that was all puppets or something, things with eighteen hands and blue fur all posed like they were bathing or dancing or – other things. Things like giant fish with skin you could see through, or little rocks that somehow looked sexy – it was amazing, really, what some people thought was sexy.

It was a shame that the magazines were all in some foreign language. If the pictures were this wild, the words must be something else! But it was all squiggles or dots or little dents in the paper, like Braille but the other way round, and Wilf never could find anything like it, even when he stopped by the library and went through the foreign language newspapers.

The magazines were thick, too. Real quality printing, heavy covers and colour all the way through. Two hundred pages apiece, easy. They were probably worth much more than fifty pounds, especially considering the postage. Wilf was wondering if he could ask the bearded man about placing a bulk order – how much could Wilf sell one of these for? But then again, it wasn't the sort of thing that you could just leave out and expect someone to buy.

He mentioned this to the man the next time he dropped by, and the man smiled a sharp little smile and suggested that they discuss the matter over a private lunch. He knew just the place, quite nearby. His treat.

It was a very expensive-looking establishment, and Wilf felt dreadfully out of place, but they were whisked off to a private booth in a moment, and a selection of appetisers put down for them. A nice glass of beer, apiece, as well. The barded man ordered something, well, complicated-sounding; and Wilf just put his chin down and ordered a corned beef sandwich. The food arrived in what felt like seconds and it looked great: the perfect sandwich, thick and meaty, with a toasted crust and a little toothpick with cellophane on it. But before Wilf could take a bite, the bearded man pushed the sandwich aside and laid a thick envelope in its place. A familiar envelope.

"Perhaps we could read a little first, to work up an appetite?"

Wilf wasn't all that sure about this. He looked at the bearded man, who only smiled and lit an oddly minty-smelling cigar. Then he looked down at the magazine, just as the man's gloved hand flipped it open to a photo that spanned two pages.

Wilf stared, his eyes nearly starting out of his head. There was – that was a woman, but her hands were – and that thing with her. It wasn't a person. But at the same, time, it clearly wasn't an animal. It had two legs, but what was between them was – and she was –

The minty smell of the cigar drifted around him, making him go limp all over, except in one place. He felt the sort of paralysis you feel in dreams, except for his eyes, hungrily devouring the pictures. The sensation of pressure in his groin was a delicious excitement, and it made him think of all sorts of naughty wonderful things, and made him imagine that even more wonderful things could be found here, with this magazine, with this man, if only he kept looking.

The gloved hand that turned the pages for him kept distractingly dipping under the table to run up Wilf's thigh, and the bearded mouth pressed a little too close to his ear to whisper how exciting the layouts were, how aroused the models were, and how aroused he was feeling as well...

The man's hands were cold through his gloves. Wilf didn't care. He wanted those cold hands on him; he wanted to feel if the man's mouth was equally cool. He was just about to either make an embarrassment of himself or throw himself into the other man's arms and beg for release when they were interrupted.

The curtain around their booth was pulled aside, and a tall white-haired man scowled down at them.

"So, there you are!" he snapped. "I wondered who was redirecting my magazine subscriptions." The stranger picked up the cigar from where it smouldered untouched in the ashtray, sniffed it with a disdainful air, and crushed it out. "And using drugged smoke on this poor man, I imagine: bending his will to yours."

"He seems a loyal creature," the bearded man said in a friendly tone that didn't match how mean his eyes had become. "Loyalty is very useful to me."

"Yes, well, you'll not have this man. Run along and play your games elsewhere. And-" the stranger's hand dropped on the magazine, intercepting the bearded man, "you can leave my property here."

With a nod of his head, the bearded man eeled out of the booth and vanished; the white-haired man sat down on the vacated seat with a sigh, and then looked over at Wilf.

"I – sorry, what was all that about?" Wilf was rather dazed, although the fresh air was suddenly making him realise how unlike him it was to sit in a restaurant booth and paw at another man.

"That man was stealing my magazines, with your help I presume."

"Oh well, I mean, I am sorry. He just told me where to order them. I didn't think-"

"No, no. I don't blame you. He can be very – seductive."

"Um." Wilf stared down at the table, and then quickly looked away.

The stranger smiled down at Wilf's confusion. "Tell you what, why don't I pick up the tab for you?"

"That's very generous of you, sir," Wilf replied. "Can I finish the sandwich then?"

"Be my guest." The white haired man slid further into the booth, until his hip was brushing Wilf's. "And perhaps we can sit down and read together."

"Oh, well I-" and then Wilf considered.

"I don't see why not," he said softly. Carefully tucking a napkin under his chin to keep the crumbs off, he started to eat and turn the pages, letting his fingers brush the other man's on occasion. He leaned a little into the man's shoulder, and felt the pressure returned.

It was a very private booth, after all.


End file.
